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“People are always getting married in Ireland, right? We can check out some bridal shops.”
“That’s a thought. That’s a good thought. A day trip into Galway City maybe. There’s got to be—”
“Here’s the last she sent.”
Breen turned. And covered the gasp with her hand.
“Oh” was all she could manage. “Oh.”
It floated around her, pale, pale violet threaded with silver, skimming just above her ankles, a cloud of silk.
Marco knuckled at his eyes, then gave her the twirl signal.
As she turned, the skirt billowed and fell. Silver straps crossed her bare back where a bow sat at her waist with its long ribbons trailing.
“Cancel that day trip.” Marco beamed at her. “That’s your dress.”
“You’re perfect.” Breen swiped at tears. “You’re absolutely perfect. It’s like your wings. It’s yours. It’s you. It’s perfect.”
“Are you sure? Because, oh, I love it so much. I didn’t want to saybecause I know it’s not so magnificent as the first, or elegant as the second. But I feel like a bride in it. I feel like me. I feel like Morena Mac an Ghaill being a bride.”
“Because it’s your wedding dress.” Sighing, Breen swiped at more tears.
“Boots the same color,” Marco decreed. “With some sparkle on them.”
“Oh, aye! Oh, won’t I look a picture? Marco, I need you to do my hair, please, say you will. I want a head full of braids, and just a wreath of flowers over it. Say you will.”
“You—you want me to do your hair? On your wedding day! I have to sit down.” He actually staggered. “I need more champagne but I have to sit down.”
“That means he will?”
“It means he will,” Breen confirmed. “More champagne!”
“I have to take this off before I spill something on it. Then I’ll drink you both under the table.”
December blew its cold breath so the trees shivered and the bay chopped. It spread a thin lacing of frost that crunched under bootsteps and had hooves ringing like bells on the hardened roads.
In Fey Cottage, Christmas ruled. Brian brought Marco a tree from the high country, and it stood sparkling with lights, dripping with ornaments. Breen bartered with Aisling and hung the four brightly woven stockings from the mantel.
When Keegan pointed out Christmas stockings were for the littles, Breen stated, firmly, everyone was a little at Christmas.
The air smelled of pine and Marco’s relentless baking.
In Talamh, she found much the same: the twinkle of lights, the ladened trees, the hopefully hung stockings. And more with the faerie tradition of little silver bells strung on branches and posts, the Elfin addition of bundling nuts and berries as feasts and treats for wildlife.
After a time of sorrow, joy spread. Breen worked through it, writing, training, practicing magicks. She worked on gifts, to buy, to barter for in Talamh, to make in Marg’s workshop.
So when the dreams came back, they came as a jolt, a strike of dark against the light.
She saw Yseult in a workshop of her own. Her dark red hair held streaks of gray, and she moved slowly, stiffly. Even in sleep, Breen felt a surge of satisfaction.
She had done that.
And even in sleep, she felt the stings of black magicks, heard the hiss of the two-headed sleep snake as the witch milked the viper, as the poison dripped, thick and gray as a slug, into a bowl.
Done, she placed the snake in a basket with a pair of quivering mice. It struck and struck while the mice screamed. Then it devoured.
“Rest now, my darling.”
